Missing
by Aquamarina15
Summary: John thinks of Sherlock after his death. It's rather short and sad. Songfic with the first verse of "So Cold" by Ben Cocks. Please R & R.


Something's missing

_You can't hear me cry, see my dreams all die_

Standing in front of his grave, I'll just let it out here. I'll just cry where it's supposed to happen, where everyone else is. Mrs. Hudson isn't here to see me break down, and I thank god for that, remembering when she assumed us to be gay and together.

I do love Sherlock, but it's not like that. Not like a boyfriend, but not like a brother either. Like the closest type of friend. The kind you just can't live without.

I didn't even know him that long! But I can't shake the feeling that I just lost my lifesaver, my lifejacket, my anchor to the rest of the world.

_From where you're standing on your own_

Deep down, I wonder if he feels empty, all alone in wherever the dead people go. My mum used to tell me that dead people could hear the thoughts of those who miss them, but I never believed her. Dead people already know they're missed. Wouldn't it just break their hearts far more than they already are to hear their own mourning?

No one wants to be dead, but if that's how you carry on in the afterlife, there's no way I'd ever accept death. I remember being ready to, many times, and I'm sure Sherlock was ready this time.

He forgot, as he always does, to ask what I thought. Or maybe he did. I guess I just wasn't listening.

Maybe I should have listened a little more.

_It's so quiet here, and it feels so cold_

Visiting his grave, back here again. I wish I could stop, but I don't feel like I can cry anywhere else, and now, months later, I haven't been able to shake off the sense of loss.

No one else visits by now, except Mycroft, who always leaves a little rose here. This month it's yellow. I don't think he knows what the colors mean, and neither do I. I set his magnifying glass out in front of his grave the second time I came here. It seems the only proper thing to give him-if he's out solving crimes in the afterlife, he'll need it.

I'm surprised that Molly doesn't come out here very often. Her sadness was so quiet, just wounded, not open and wide like I expected it to be. She retracts even more into herself than before. I just expected her to burst into tears, but she didn't. I don't think she even let one fall. It seems like an indirect telling-off, her way of saying "I know what you did to me, and you did it on purpose, and I don't forgive you for hurting me over and over." I'm proud of her for picking herself up. I remember after the funeral, before leaving, she said, "well that's that, isn't it, John?"

I replied, "I'm going to miss him."

She smiled sadly at me. "So will I."

Then I gave her a hug, but deep down, I wonder if maybe it was more for me than it was for her.

Of course I loved Sherlock. He saved me. How could you not love someone who did that? But everyone assumes it's in a different way. That's not how it is, not how I am. It just feels as if I've spent my whole life by his side, and there's a numb, cold spot along my right side.

_This house no longer feels like home._

Sherlock himself was a cold man. He was mean, he was rude, and he was completely hopeless when it came to people. But the whole flat just seems so much colder without him.

I can't deny the silence, though. It swallows me up some days when I'm not careful. I've taken to playing music off an iPod, just so it isn't silent around here. When he was here, it was never silent, never even quiet. He always yelled, always played, always crashed things together and maybe just his whole Sherlock-ness created some undefinable noise that leaked under every door until it filled up everyone's ears.

My mind continuously returns to Molly, still so surprised at how cool and collected she was when I found myself falling apart. I just don't understand how she could so easily pick herself up when I find it almost impossible.

It's the damn love that does it. I'm beginning to realize that maybe I'll never be able to be whole again, after losing a part of me I was never quite aware of. Like I said, Sherlock SAVED me, and it concerns me that I never repaid him for that. But not for his sake, because he probably isn't even aware that he did. For mine, when I worry that I wasn't able to save him, just when he needed me I didn't help him.

He wanted me to believe him. He wanted me to believe that he was a fake. That he wasn't Sherlock. He really did want me to believe it and everyone else to believe it and I can't. That's what it is that makes me so sad, the one thing he wanted to me to do, more than anything, and I just couldn't. And I still can't. No one knows about that phone call. But I do the best I can, and when people talk about him the way that make my blood boil, I say nothing to defend him. Because he doesn't want me to. Maybe he never did.

I rosin his violin bow sometimes, the way he'd do it, thinking about the way he'd compose as he thought. If I was at all musical, I wonder what it would sound like if I was to pick up the violin he treasured and play.

All I can come up with is it would sound sad.

And lonely.

I was lonely before I met him, and now that he's gone, shouldn't my life return to the way it was? But it doesn't, it hasn't, my limp is still gone, the constant reminder of what he did for me. I feel so much lonelier than I ever did before I met Sherlock, despite my continuing work at Scotland Yard with Greg and Sally and Anderson, and my constant visits to Molly's office to check up. And Mrs. Hudson's still around too. I guess he really was a part of me, and I'll always feel the loss of it, as if my leg wasn't even there anymore.

It doesn't feel like home at Baker Street anymore.


End file.
